Acolytes
by rat-patooty
Summary: Following her first consultation with Gellert Grindelwald regarding Credence Barebone's decision to join their cause, Queenie Goldstein finds herself wandering about her new leader's stronghold. It's here that she is reunited with her former supervisor, Mr. Abernathy, as well as Vinda Rosier. Tensions run high between them as they embark on their mission toward the Greater Good.
1. Chapter 1

Queenie Goldstein's heart was a caged bird, fluttering frantically. The warmth of scarlet flames lingered on her skin as she wound her way through the halls of Nurmengard castle. She wasn't needed. Not right now, anyway. He would let her know when he once again required her talents, and she would come. Willingly.

The silence was drowned in the echo of her heels upon the flagged stone. Her hand sought a doorknob at random, and she slipped inside, alone with her own thoughts for the first time in Morrigan-only-knew how long.

 _You're crazy. . . ._

The words pounded against her skull in a ceaseless loop.

His eyes . . . his voice. . . . He'd been so scared. . . .

"It's gonna be alright, honey. I'm gonna fix this. _He's_ gonna fix _everything_ . . ."

"And then some."

With a gasp, Queenie spun toward the speaker. She hadn't heard anyone come in—no rustle of clothing, no tap of footsteps, not even a whispered stream of consciousness. A smirk turned up a corner of the newcomer's mouth.

"Fancy meetin' you here, Miss Goldstein."

Queenie's eyes widened. "Mr. Abernathy . . ."

Her supervisor spread his arms, the twisted smile broadening on his face. "Surprised?" he asked, stepping toward her. "Sure is funny how nobody suspects the little guy, ain't it?" His silvery eyes trailed up and down the length of her body, assessing every curve. "Talk about surprises," he murmured. "He _said_ your heart would rule your head . . . and sure enough, here you are." A muscle twitched within his jaw. "Too bad it didn't work out for ya. . . . I lost my gal not too long ago." Abernathy's lips curled into a bitter grimace. "Helen. . . . Scared her off with my talk of the future. I reckon she weren't no different from your No-Maj fella."

"Don't say that," Queenie breathed. "You don't know Jacob. Fear does all sorts of things to people, but he loves me. When all this is over . . . he'll come back. . . ."

"Is that right?"

A shudder wracked Queenie's body as her former employer came closer. His presence was tangible at her back, the nearness of him turning her skin to gooseflesh.

"Well," Abernathy purred. "If he ever changes his mind . . ." His lungs filled with her scent.

 _Scrumptious._

Revulsion clawed its way up her throat as she felt the flicker of a forked tongue lapping the length of her neck. She jerked out of his grasp.

" _Don't touch me_ ," she hissed, stomach turning.

"What, you don't like it?" Abernathy replied, voice saturated with faux indignation. "A gift from the boss. To mark my allegiance."

Queenie swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat. "It's fitting, for a vile, little snake like you!" she spat with a snap of her neck, curls bouncing off her cheekbones.

"Now, Queenie . . ." Abernathy sneered. "That ain't no way to talk to your supervisor, now, is it?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't answer to you no more."

"No." Abernathy straightened. "We both answer to someone else."

Queenie stood, quivering, as he walked away, the line of his saliva cooling on her skin.

"You know . . ." Abernathy's voice resonated across the room. "I never saw much of Percival Graves. He never had time for us poor schmucks down in the likes of the Wand Permit Office. That is, not until your sister went and got herself demoted. Really, I have her to thank for all of this. After all, what's a wand registries paper pusher to an Auror? But because of _her_ antics, he _acknowledged_ _respected_ me.

"You know what he said to me? He told me I was wasted in a basement bureau. See, he _knew_. It all comes natural to me—Transfiguration, in particular."

The skin on his face rippled. At first, Queenie thought it was merely a trick of the light, the dancing of shadows. Then, her own reflection—in a three-piece suit—grinned at her. She screamed.

"You're a . . . a—"

"That's right, doll." _A Metamorphmagus._ " _He_ taught me my value. And I'm fuckin' sick of hiding. I deserve more. We, Queenie . . . _we_ deserve more. Since the moment he revealed himself to me, everything I've done has been for him, and the world he's going to build for us all."

His own features materialized back into place. "He trusts me. Depends on me. And _this_ —" Queenie squeezed her eyes shut, trying not to imagine that hellish tongue when she heard his mouth open wide. "—is just the start of his gratitude. And _you_ . . . you're as essential as I am. Maybe even more so. Think of how we'll be rewarded, when it's all said and done . . ."

Queenie tore herself from his wandering hands, the foul heat of his breath. "Lookie here, mister, let's get somethin' straight: _I despise you_. But we gotta play nice if you and I are gonna be on the same team. And I _told_ you _not to touch me_."

Abernathy blinked. "You're right." His hands drew back in surrender, palms empty, fingers splayed. "I'm sorry for my bad behavior."

Queenie was unsettled to hear sincerity woven within his thoughts.

"It's just, you always had a bit of an effect on me." Abernathy lifted his brows. "But you already know that, don't ya?"

Queenie felt sick. "Believe me, Mr. Abernathy, the inconvenience is mutual."

Smirking, Abernathy thrust his hands inside the outer pockets of his sleek, leather trench coat. Everything about his appearance was streamlined and lethal—gone was the prim and pompous jobsworth who plagued her days with micromanagement and awkward advances. Somehow, she'd managed to find his interactions at least a little endearing. But now, she was terrified of the man who stood before her, capable of more than she'd ever anticipated.

"I hope you enjoy your time here at Nurmengard, Miss Goldstein. And I hope you won't hesitate to let any of us know if you need anything. Anything at all."

As he left the room, Queenie mustered up the last of her resolve. "Mr. Abernathy?" Those large, gray eyes met her gaze. She swallowed. "Stay away from me."

His smile was cold and cruel.

"Whatever you say, doll."

The door shut behind him, and Queenie crumpled to the floor, consumed by convulsive sobs.

* * *

"Sweetheart, I'm sure this Mr. Graves is just as swell as you keep makin' him out to be, but is there any reason we can't have this business meetin' in a nice café or restaurant, like everyone else?"

"Because this ain't a normal business meetin', baby." Abernathy grinned as he tugged Helen along, her petite hand grasped tightly in his. The moment had finally come. She was ready, he was sure of it! And then, their work could well and truly begin. . . .

The couple turned a corner, deeper into the labyrinthine alleyways of New York. The smell of damp brick and garbage baked in the afternoon sun assaulted their nostrils as they walked, shoes splashing through puddles of filthy rainwater. Helen squeaked and snuggled closer to her beau.

"Honestly, Joseph, I got half a mind to Disapparate outta here! Just how much farther do you expect me to—"

"Not much longer now, baby, I promise!" Smile broadening, Abernathy wrapped an arm around her. She only ever called him by his Christian name when she was agitated. But it would all be worth the while. . . .

The clack of their shoes abruptly stopped. Helen froze against him, staring into the distant shadows. Abernathy felt his heart leap into his throat.

"We're here, baby," he whispered. "Helen, honey, I want you to meet Mr. Percival Graves."

Helen gave a start as a tall, elegant man stepped into the dim light filtering down from opened brownstone windows. As always, he looked immaculate, striking quite an impressive silhouette in the darkness.

"Mr. Graves, sir, this is my gal, Helen Cuthbert. Ain't she a vision?"

He knew he was beaming like an idiot, but the occasion had sparked a kind of giddiness in him. Helen shivered as Mr. Graves brought his lips to her proffered hand.

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Cuthbert. Abernathy speaks very highly of you, indeed."

"Well, gosh, the pleasure's all mine, Mr. Graves. Joseph speaks _very_ highly of _you_ , as well."

Abernathy chuckled. Joseph? Again? He gently tightened his hold on her, drawing her close.

All at once, a strangled sound escaped Graves' throat. "A-Abernathy," he gasped, twitching violently. "It's time."

Helen's hands flew to her mouth. "Mr. Graves, are you feelin' alright?"

Abernathy ran his palm soothingly along the length of her arm. " _Shh_ , it's alright, baby. Now, Helen, honey, listen to me. Mr. Graves and I have somethin' real important to tell ya. . . . Somethin' ya gotta hear in person . . ."

Helen turned to him, her hazel eyes wide with panic. Graves' body had begun to spasm. On impulse, Abernathy seized her shoulders and forced her gaze toward his. "Helen, it's okay, everything's gonna be just fine. You gotta trust me, baby."

With a choking gasp, Mr. Graves slowly extended to his full height. Sensing his movements, Helen and Abernathy faced the man before them.

" _Silencio_."

Gellert Grindelwald's wand was raised before Helen had time to open her mouth. Her scream was stifled instantly, her other protestations nothing more than soft, muffled squeals.

" _Shh_ , _shh_ , Helen! Helen, baby, it's alright, it's okay! Remember what I told ya?" Desperate, Abernathy clung to her, consoling as best as his thundering heart would allow. "Remember what I said about our future? About makin' our world a better place? Well, this is it, baby! He can help us! He's gonna make it all possible . . ."

But Helen was struggling against him, wriggling as madly as an ensnared Grindylow. Abernathy shushed and stroked her hair, but she continued to fight . . .

A cool hand settled on his shoulder. The gust of another spell flew past, leaving Helen petrified in his arms. Abernathy took a step back.

"Helen . . .?"

The woman he cared for stood perfectly immobile, her eyes wide with animalistic fear. Disbelief churned in Abernathy's gut, before curling into a fist of disappointment, slugging him so hard, it was painful to breathe.

How could this happen?

She was ready . . .

"You mustn't force her into anything against her will." His master's voice coated his throbbing, confused heart. Trembling, Abernathy closed his eyes, basking in the balm of Grindelwald's words. "Let her go, Abernathy." The other man's breath caressed his ear, warm . . . fleeting . . . "It's for the Greater Good. Let her go."

Loathing. It was sticky and black, expanding within his rib cage, clouding everything. Tears glittered in Helen's eyes, tumbled down her beautiful, frozen face.

The world was silent.

Abernathy raised his wand.

Redemption. Freedom. Remorse.

All took the form of bright green light.

* * *

Abernathy drew a wavering breath, blinking back into the present tense. The pound of his pulse was visible within his throat, and he gulped back a wave of nausea.

Women seemed to bring out the worst in him, as of late.

Panting, he fumbled his way down the corridor, the smell of Queenie Goldstein's perfume swirling through memories of Helen's chestnut hair . . .

A flash of white cut through the shadows—a nephilim light in the darkness. Abernathy snapped to attention.

"Mr. Grindelwald, sir."

The faintest hint of a smile crossed his master's mouth. "Abernathy." There was something vaguely feline in the man's saunter. Abernathy straightened his spine with each muffled step of steel sole on the carpet running down the length of the hall. "I shouldn't think I need remind you that you are the most prized of all my Acolytes."

Abernathy refrained from smiling, even as the praise enveloped him like a warm embrace.

"But . . . I confess, I find myself . . . ill at ease."

The comforting heat of the moment prior evaporated, leaving him numb. "Because of me, sir?"

Grindelwald focused his multi-colored stare on his right-hand, his voice like a brush of silk.

"Abernathy, I know what your body craves, and that your heart is empty. But my tether to Miss Goldstein is . . . _delicate_ , at best. And I'm sure you know how unappreciative I will be, should you sever that bond due to a moment of weakness."

Burning shame crept up Abernathy's neck, the same that had overtaken him the moment Grindelwald had stepped out of sight, and he had collapsed on the pavement at her feet, vomiting and sobbing like a child. . . .

"I'm sorry, sir," he whispered. "It won't happen again."

A strong hand cradled the back of his head. "I know, Abernathy. I know."


	2. Chapter 2

Good. That was the _one_ word that fundamentally summed up Jacob Kowalski.

 _See, I ain't ever gonna find anyone like you . ._.

He was made of all the little things: a spare Dragot in the pocket of an old winter coat, the bubble of mirth in a shot of Pinnock's, a dress seam's thread pulled taut, and—of course—the freshly baked air of a pastry shop. All of this, without a drop of magic in his veins.

Queenie nibbled her lower lip, lashes wet with tears.

She'd felt the enchantment upon her mouth, tingling like the brush of his mustache, as she kissed him . . . softly, sweetly. . . . Recognition bloomed in his eyes, amidst a swirl of Obliviated, fantastical memories, his bewildered smile radiant.

"Queenie . . ."

Tears leapt to her eyes as she returned her lips to his mouth.

Their courtship remained a secret, yet steady, affair. Nearly every night, she'd lain in his bed, moaning softly as he nuzzled into the warmth of her chest.

"I love you, sweetheart. Dear God, I love you _so much_ ," he'd muttered between each kiss.

Beaming, Queenie combed her fingers through his dark waves of hair, indescribable happiness shining within her.

In his thoughts, he worshipped her, craved her in ways she'd never considered. Eventually, he stopped spending time at his bakery, leaving it in the capable hands of his employees. That's when she felt sure he was ready.

 _They're really progressive here, and they'll let us get married properly_!

Exasperation had engulfed him, his tone harsh, the words he'd said nothing like the ones she'd hoped to hear.

 _Damn you, Newton Artemis Fido Scamander! Why couldn't ya have left well enough alone, huh?_ A sob caught in Queenie's throat. She swallowed, shaking her gold curls to help clear the pain. He was no different than Tina, acting all high-and-mighty, looking down on her, and her plans for a future with the love of her life. Why did _no one_ want this for her?

 _Why is it wrong to wanna marry you? To wanna have a family? I just want what everyone else has, that's all._

". . . What is he _doing_ here?"

 _"Teenie_ . . ."

It was temporary.

She'd just needed him to remember her, that was all. And _this_ was just a bit of insurance until their plans could come to fruition. Then she'd lift it, and everything would go back to normal, to the way it was _supposed_ to be. They could have a life together in Europe. There was nothing for her here, and _he_ could expand his business! He'd opened one bakery, right, and look at how successful he was! He could do it again, abroad—it'd be a snap!

Hurt filled more than her sister's eyes. "Nothing for you here?"

She'd waved the comment aside. "Oh, Teenie, you know that ain't what I mean! Of _course_ I didn't mean you—but you get transferred all the time now that you're an Auror again. I'll prolly see you more over _there_ , when you're on assignment, than I do here, waitin' for you to come home at night . . ."

Tina's mind fogged, rumblings of anger brewing within the clouds. _So now you're going to leave me, too?_

Queenie straightened, her jaw set. "You _know_ that ain't true. He went back home. There's a difference, Teen."

She gasped. An ache of longing. A burst of despair. _Beast Tamer Newt To Wed. With fiancée, Leta Lestrange_.

Queenie raised a trembling hand to her mouth. "Oh, Teenie . . . I'm so sorry, I forgot . . ."

"Of course you did!" Tina scoffed, her laugh humorless. "Too busy trailing down No-Majs and dousing them in memory charms and love spells, apparently! What is _wrong_ with you, Queenie?"

Her regret curdled into resentment. "Oh, I see, so . . . _you_ can't have your happy ending, so I shouldn't have mine either? _Honestly_ , Teen, I thought you would be happy for me! This is my chance—whose side are you on, anyway?"

Rolled eyes. _You're acting like a child_. "I'm not _on_ anyone's _side_ , Queenie. This is a matter of the _law_. Do you think I _want_ to throw my own sister in jail because she's blatantly ignoring everything she already knows about maintaining the Statute of Secrecy? Mercy Lewis—do you even _realize_ what I'd be risking by indulging you? How could you have let it go this far?"

Her sister's chastisement sank in like a doxie's jaws, the sting equally unbearable. For Tina, there were always limits. Rules to follow. Hearts to harden. But Queenie, herself, was made of brighter things: hope, possibility . . . love, most of all. If she couldn't believe in _that_ , if everyone else scorned it, what in the name of Deliverance Dane were they doing? What else could life possibly be for?

If that made her childish, if that was wrong, she couldn't have cared less.

There was solace in the fact that she didn't need her sister's blessing—she was her own woman, and Jacob was hers. No matter what, he would love her, and the two of them were going to get their happily-ever-after.

With him, life would be perfect. Oh, rabbits! With him, life _was_ perfect. He was everything: caring, kind, pure. But grittier things scuffed the polished surface: determination, hard work, an unshakable sense of courage . . .

Or so she had thought.

 _One of us had to be brave, and you were being a coward_!

 _I_ _was being a coward? If I'm a coward, you're_ —

Crazy.

She'd heard plenty of humdingers within the thoughts of New York, but never anything quite like that, especially . . . from _him_.

That had been it. The moment Newt drew his wand in his apartment's small dining room, everything had crumbled. She was suddenly faced with the reality of what she had done while looking through her shimmering, pink lens.

She'd never intended to leave that spell on him. Enchantment or no, Jacob wanted to marry her, too—he'd said as much, countless times. But he'd been hesitant from the start, all because of that damn law—a law that didn't even _exist_ across the pond! What did that say about the way things were run back home? This wasn't the seventeenth century. Things were different now . . .

. . . Things were different now.

The first time, he hadn't thought she was _literally_ crazy. The anger, the will to hurt, had been authentic—not the idea itself. This time, standing outside the circle of flame, he had believed the words he'd spoken. _How had this happened? What was she thinking? What had_ _he done to her? She's lost her mind. I've lost her . . ._

Queenie's body ached as she sobbed. She hadn't really stopped since her arrival here at Nurmengard. She wondered, vaguely, if she ever would, watching her teardrops fall. If she would ever stop reliving the moment she lost everything.

The sister who had anchored her since childhood. Their new friend, with the gentlest soul. The man she was destined to love, despite a time and place in which it was forbidden.

He hadn't come with her. None of them had.

But there was one thing they did not, and could not, understand. Every word that left Gellert Grindelwald's lips was the truth. Never had a sentence been uttered that did not ring with his conviction, nor had a single lie been spoken. Queenie knew this. She had explored the innermost sanctum of his mind—he'd allowed her to, had even encouraged it—on that first, fateful meeting in his parlor.

Despite the gift of persuasion he'd been granted, his vision for a modern wizarding age was so often misconstrued. Prejudices cemented in centuries of fear and hate had tainted his messaging—hence the concern, the doubt, and mistrust. Their present was the way in which things had always been done, and _were_ to be done, to avoid persecution and death. It was understandable. Fear was a crippling force. And try as he might, he could never reach the hearts and minds of a select few, who had dedicated themselves to opposition. Those who held the past in higher esteem than the wellbeing of their fellow witches and wizards. Traditionalists. Aurors.

He did not fault the non-magic community for their abhorrent history and behavior. Was a portion of wizard-kind not guilty of the same crimes, in retaliation? To act this way was human, but as possessors of magical abilities, wizards and witches had obligations of their own—to rise above, and put an end to this pointless toxicity.

Her friends and family? Their hesitation was natural. It was not their fault that they had been conditioned. Resistance was the only way they could cope with a gradually evolving world. They thought Grindelwald wanted superiority and division, but that wasn't true at all. If anything, he valued the opposite. Under the supervision of wizard-kind, no one would be forced into submission; no one would live in the shadows; everyone would be able to do as they pleased, free of consequence.

But what of the sacrifices that had already been made? Surely, such misdeeds were unforgivable. Sorrow filled his whispered thoughts. War was never without its casualties. It was an unfortunate truth. Progress could not be made if the path was not cleared of obstacles, and Grindelwald was willing to do whatever was necessary to make his hope for the world a reality. No pride, no pleasure. Simply duty . . . and remorse.

After all, with a second Great War on the horizon, the ends could more than justify the means. If wizard-kind stayed its current course, Grindelwald's projection was guaranteed to unfold, for there was no contesting that he was equipped with true Sight. Any life lost in the near future was regrettable . . . but such limited numbers could not compare with the loss of thousands.

There was no choice. There was only the Greater Good.

But how could they know? How could they understand? They had only his word, and even then, she doubted they'd ever be willing to listen.

"Miss Goldstein?" A knuckle rapped against the doorframe, loud and sharp.

"Who is it?" Queenie sniffled, too busy dabbing at her face to delve into the visitor's mind.

"It's Vinda, _chèrie_."

Queenie's eyes widened. Vinda Rosier. Of course. "C'mon in," she called, fumbling with her handkerchief.

The door opened to reveal the striking woman Queenie had come to know as something resembling a friend. Upon seeing her, an appreciative sigh escaped Queenie's lips. Based on the thoughts she'd so often heard, she knew her own looks could make a fella's heart race, but the beauty Vinda possessed could _stop_ it. Even at her finest, Queenie felt small and waif-like in her presence—even more so sitting on her untidy bed, streaks of mascara undoubtedly ruining her made-up face.

"I came to inform you that dinner is nearly prepared." The way she spoke—her voice was rich and hypnotic, her English so heavily accented that Queenie occasionally had difficulty understanding her. Vinda sauntered forward. The pointed tip of her hat accentuated her considerable height, the sway of her willowy figure enchanting. "As I understand it, you have hardly eaten since you arrived."

Queenie lowered her gaze. "I haven't had much of an appetite lately . . ."

"You _must_ be more kind to yourself, Miss Goldstein." Staring up at Vinda's smile, Queenie felt sure the sentiment was meant to be applied on multiple accounts. "We were all rather hoping you would be present this evening."

Taken aback, Queenie wove her way through Vinda's mind . . . and was startled to find herself in a void of stark, unyielding white. It was not painful or unpleasant, but she was thoroughly disarmed by the sudden lack of emotion and thought. She'd merely wanted to know if Vinda's words rang true, and instead, she was left with _nothing_.

Vinda turned a knowing glance on her. "My apologies, Miss Goldstein, but I hope you will not object to my concealment. I am of a very private nature."

"I . . ." Queenie swallowed, her mouth dry. "I don't mind at all. I'm just wonderin' . . . how on earth you're doin' it. . . ."

"It is a learned skill known as Occlumency—the ability to shield one's mind. Have you never encountered it?"

Queenie shook her head. "Growin' up, we all had enough trouble tryin' to make sense of why I could hear and know all the things that I did. _I_ was always the one who practiced control. . . ."

The warmth of Vinda's hand pressed against her shoulder. "Do not take offense, _je t'en supplie_. I mean no disrespect."

"No . . . no, _I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't be prying like that."

"Ahh, but our master has applauded your gift. He desires that you strengthen it, hone it further. I should be more accommodating."

The wall lowered, and Vinda granted her a vision of the assembled Acolytes in the dining hall below, intrigued to learn more of their newest member. Queenie gasped.

"Oh! Well, in that case . . . I guess it would be rude to keep 'em waitin', huh?"

Vinda nodded as Queenie stood, smoothing the fabric of her dress. "Will . . ." She drew a deep breath, remembering. "Will . . . Mr. Abernathy be joining us?"

A smile played across Vinda's painted lips. " _Ne t'en fais pas, chèrie. Il est en_ . . . erm, patrol. Guard duty," she clarified, noticing Queenie's furrowed brow. "It is unlikely you will have any interaction with him this evening."

Emboldened, Queenie mustered a grin of her own and followed Vinda from the room.

* * *

She was unfazed to find Gellert Grindelwald seated among his faithful Acolytes. She _was_ mildly surprised, however, to discover that he was not sitting at the head of the table. In fact, there seemed to be no hierarchy to speak of—all in this setting were equal.

With a bow of her head, Queenie hovered at the back of the chair Vinda had indicated she claim. There was another empty chair two seats down—Queenie breathed a sigh of relief. She knew for a fact that Vinda had not lied to her, but it put her mind at ease to find Abernathy's place unoccupied, all the same. Carefully, she drew the chair from the table and settled atop it.

"Welcome, Miss Goldstein." A man named Tomas Nagel inclined his head toward her. His black eyes sparkled in the candlelight. "It's good to meet you, formally."

A general hum of agreement buzzed through the assembled Acolytes.

"Not only that, but it's nice to have another woman added to our ranks." This from Emmeline Carrow, a shrewd smile on her mouth. Studying her, Queenie had the distinct notion that she was not a woman to cross. Traditionally pureblood in every sense, toying with Muggles, like a Kneazle with a rat, filled her with an unnerving brand of glee. Queenie's eyes widened.

"Oh, I couldn't agree more. Strength in numbers! Ah . . ." She flashed a dazzling smile. "Beggin' your pardon, gentlemen."

Chuckling, all around. So far, so good. They liked her. She was charming.

Queenie exhaled a stalled breath, allowing herself to sink a bit more comfortably into her chair. Everyone else had quietly tucked into their food, and, not wanting to be impolite, she followed their example. Dishes were skillfully maneuvered above the table; decanters of water and wine floated by, offering refills. As she lifted a spoonful of _boeuf bourguignon_ to her lips, Queenie was reminded, forcefully, of Jacob. He would have been head-over-heels for this food, chewing deliberately to savor each bite, brow furrowed with appreciation. . . .

She tossed her hair, determined not to let the sorrow of her recent past disrupt her first impression.

A crackle of energy surged through the collection of thoughts, but it was primarily calm, most everyone contemplative of the meal before them. One man, in particular, was subtly nodding, his mind brimming with the satisfaction of a job well done.

"This meal is delicious, Mr. Krafft. You do most of the cooking around here, huh?"

Alexander Krafft turned to her. "That's right, Miss Goldstein." Apart from his raised eyebrows, he appeared unperturbed by her blatant intrusion into his thoughts. Several others looked up from their plates, curious. From the corner of her eye, Queenie saw Grindelwald smile.

"Do not lock yourself away, my dear," he had whispered. "The others in your life, they don't understand —they see your abilities as a burden, a personal affront. They are wrong."

"I'm not aiming to step on your toes, but cooking's kinda my specialty. If you ever wanted a break, I'd be more than happy to try my wand in the kitchen from time to time. It might be nice to have someone to trade off with, especially since you had to hoof it on your own for so long during the War . . ."

The fight across Europe was affecting them all, despite the Minister's insistence that wizard-kind should stay out of the Muggle-induced conflict. Idle behavior was not an option. He would have gone on longer had he not sustained that damned injury of his. . . . At least it had helped him learn that he if couldn't fight on the frontline himself, he could nourish the boys who could. Of course, now, he was just tired. Tired of the devastating trouble Muggles could cause.

Krafft's russet brows rose higher still. "Oh, ho! So it's true after all! Very impressive, Miss Goldstein."

A blush warmed her cheeks. "I just thought it could be a way for me to kinda, earn my keep around here, ya know? My way of sayin' thank you, for takin' me in . . ."

"We didn't take you in." Nagel's voice was kind, despite the contradiction. He reminded her a bit of Tina. He was an ex-Ministry employee and, like her sister, had been demoted multiple times, on account of his erratic, and often reckless, behavior. "You're one of us."

It was heartening to hear. Queenie beamed.

"You can read minds?"

The young voice was guarded, sharp to mask the notes of apprehension. All eyes at the table turned toward Credence Barebone—or, as he was now known, Aurelius Dumbledore. Distrust and fear lashed from his overall aura, his dark gaze locked on Queenie. She opened her mouth to reassure him, but Grindelwald beat her to it.

"Indeed, she can. Miss Goldstein possesses an extremely rare and beautiful gift. We are most fortunate that she has graced us with her allegiance."

"Is it natural?" Credence addressed her. "Like what Mr. Abernathy can do?"

Although the image of Abernathy shifting his physical appearance made her shudder, Queenie smiled. "It _is_ like that, yeah. Both of us were born with what we can do. Not a lot of wizards and witches are, so that makes us kinda special, I guess. I got pretty good self-control now, unless someone is real outta sorts. Emotions are hard to tune out sometimes."

The former Obscurial nodded, a wealth of understanding brewing beneath his sullen expression. He turned back to his plate without further comment.

Grindelwald shifted within his chair. "How long has Abernathy been at his post?"

A huge, burly man, Kai MacDuff, answered. "Going on twelve hours, sir. I'm set to relieve him."

Grindelwald gestured toward MacDuff, who promptly rose from his seat. "Do. He's earned some respite."

Over the rim of her glass, Queenie watched the heavy-for-hire clomp out of the room. She'd shut down any venture into his mind the moment she'd realized he spent most of his time serving as a bounty hunter, or the occasional assassin—each trinket dangling from his belt was a memento of every job he'd completed. He worked for the highest bidder, or, in his eyes, the person "mostly likely to win." Apparently, that person was Gellert Grindelwald.

For a time, a symphony of tinkling silverware and pouring liquids filled the silence. Queenie's anxiety grew. _Most likely_ , Vinda had said. But from the sound of it, Abernathy was coming back after all. She couldn't quite place why she was so terrified—he couldn't touch her here, not in front of everyone. Still, she didn't feel up to the task of finding out if she was right.

Not ten minutes later, Abernathy strode into the dining room, a whirlwind of leather and snow. He was freezing, Queenie instantly knew—the wintry air had bitten at his face, and, despite the brim of his hat, stung the tips of his ears. The warmth within the castle walls washed over him, soothing his agitation.

"Plenty of food left, Abernathy." With a lazy flick of his wand, Krafft levitated the main serving dish toward his colleague's plate. Eyes agleam, Abernathy removed his gloves with his teeth, his relief momentarily drowning all other thought in the room. _Oh, thank Morrigan_! Hunger had been roiling in his gut for the better part of his time on duty. At long last, he could _finally_ help himself to some—

Queenie gave a start as their eyes met across the table. His mind went blank, blood rushing to his pale face. Queenie sat motionless, scarcely daring to breathe. Gawking, Abernathy opened and closed his mouth, waiting for the words to dislodge from his throat.

". . . Ya know what, I'm—I'm not exactly up for it. Leave some in the kitchen for me, huh?" He gave Krafft's shoulder an amiable cuff with his hat. With a nod to his companions, Abernathy made his way across the hall, eyes trained on the marble floor.

Grindelwald lifted a drink to his lips, a rosy shade of pride coloring his inner monologue. His right-hand had done well.

Queenie frowned. Had _that_ been the whiff of loyalty she'd sensed on Abernathy as he'd hurried from the room, lingering in the air like a heady cologne? She felt a rush of renewed gratitude toward her leader. He had _told_ Abernathy to respect her wishes and boundaries, and he had complied . . . out of respect for the master he served, certainly. But she could have sworn there had been something else . . .

The wrong hands on her body; scalding breath at her neck; a serpent's tongue. Queenie winced.

Fear and disdain doused any glimmer of sympathy. _Let him starve for the night,_ she thought with a bitter smile. _Maybe it'll help improve his manners._

Courses were served, the conversation ebbed and flowed, and eventually, the evening dwindled to an end. It was customary, she learned, for the ladies to retire to their favorite sitting room for brandy and coffee, and Queenie was delighted to be included. A hot cup of joe was _just_ what she needed to wash everything down.

Grindelwald was the first to rise from his chair and extended an arm toward Credence. No, she knew better—toward Aurelius. He fondly held the boy's head in his hand, leaning in close. Queenie didn't need to hear his mumbled words to know that he planned on meeting him in the study for their evening tutoring session. With time, everyone filed leisurely from the room. Queenie was sure Aurelius would follow them, but instead, she found him wandering toward her chair.

"I'm sorry for how I reacted earlier," he muttered when they were the only two remaining. "You seemed like the safest person in the room until I realized what you could do . . ."

"Oh, honey. . . . You don't need to apologize for that." She climbed slowly to her feet. "I get that, for a lot of people, havin' someone who can just barge into what they're thinkin', uninvited, is pretty scary. And I ain't proud of that part of it. If you've got a lot of things on your mind that you don't wanna share, I promise you, I won't look. Or, I'll do everything in my power not to. Honest."

Aurelius met her eye. "You said it's still hard to control?"

Queenie nodded. "That's why I wasn't holding back tonight. Everybody I knew wanted me to shut them out so often, that I got a little . . . rusty. Mr. Grindelwald wants me to use my gift freely, so I can learn to manage it better. It's like, practice, in a way."

" _My_ magic is getting easier to handle now that I'm regularly using it. Channeling it into a wand has made me feel more stable."

"There ya go!" Queenie threw out her hands in celebration. "You understand. Suppressing what's inside is painful, huh?"

Emotion glistened in Aurelius's eyes, and for a moment, Queenie wondered if he would come into her opened arms. Her heart ached for him—this bruised and brave young man who had survived so much, and yet was starved for all the things most people took for granted. She somehow willed herself not to gather him up in a hug.

"We're lucky, though," she continued. "The people here have our best interests at heart. We got each other for support." She moved a fraction closer with an encouraging smile. "We're not alone here."

New York was a big city, but Paris had felt _so_ much bigger. Thoughts in a foreign language were nearly impossible to drown, almost like a catchy song on the wireless cranked so loudly that she couldn't concentrate on anything else. She'd never been away from Teenie this long before. Her sister was, and always had been, the only person who could steady her when the world grew unbearably loud. And her head was splitting in two. The rock she thought she'd found in Jacob was gone—maybe forever—and she was left with nowhere to turn. No way to move. Nothing was familiar. Nothing made sense. A scream formed low in her throat, threatening to escape. She couldn't do it.

Not all by herself.

Queenie blinked, and she was back in Nurmengard's dining hall, still standing in front of Aurelius, who was studying her.

"There's one thing I want to ask you."

She tried to revive her faltering smile. "Sure, sugar. Anything at all."

"Grindelwald says he knows who I really am. Do you . . . do you know if he's telling me the truth? Is he lying to me?"

Queenie reached out a hand, and when he didn't flinch away, she placed it gently on his shoulder. "Now, you listen here, honey. I was just outside the room when he told you your real name. And I can promise you that he wasn't lying."

Aurelius stared up at her with a look of such longing, that she brought her fingers to his cheek. Her smile broadened. "And I'm not lying, either. I would never do that to you, _Aurelius_."

He didn't draw away from her touch. He remained there for a few minutes more, processing what she'd told him.

"Thank you, Miss Goldstein," he whispered.

"Call me Queenie—okay, honey?"

She saw the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, and soon after, he turned to go. Queenie watched him leave, reflecting back on that moment, when he'd been given the identity he'd worked so hard to find. The name had sounded so grand on Grindelwald's lips. It rang through his mind, brilliant, golden, and . . . white. At the periphery, hazy, and so subtle that she hadn't even noticed it. And . . . the only reason she'd detected it this time around was because it felt familiar . . .

Queenie pressed a hand to her mouth. _Vinda . . ._

Yes, Vinda! Waiting for her! How could she have been so absentminded?

With a light cough, she set off for her destination, brushing any unsettling thoughts aside as easily as her hair.

* * *

"Rosier . . ." Abernathy stood in the doorway to his rooms, cuffs and collar undone, a portion of his slicked hair falling over his brow.

Vinda brushed past him. "Did you find it?"

Abernathy glanced at her, shoving his hands into his pockets. He shook his head. "No. I scoured the whole damn cemetery, but I came up with nothin'."

Vinda's eyes narrowed. "So he is in possession of it."

Nodding, Abernathy heaved a sigh laden with resignation. "Most likely. I don't understand how the bastard managed to get his hands on it. My guess, Goldstein's behind it all, somehow. Or that fella with the case who's at her heels like a fuckin' Crup. Most important thing is, though, we're not ruined, so long as the pact remains unbroken. So long as it stays intact, it _can_ be anywhere . . ."

"But Albus Dumbledore is his equal—one of the greatest wizards of the age. If he _does_ have the pendant, who's to say he will not try and use it against our master? I cannot imagine he will take kindly to your failure tonight. . . ."

"I didn't _fail_!" Abernathy snarled. "I did as I was told. He said himself this could happen . . ."

A smile curled Vinda's lips. " _Mon dieu_ , skipping meals puts you in a foul mood, _n'est-ce pas_?" Abernathy tensed, ready to argue, but his gaze lowered to the large bowl in her hand. "You never intended to go back to the kitchen." Smirking, she thrust the stew toward him, and he snatched it from her, shoveling a huge spoonful into his mouth. Vinda sneered. "You men are disgusting."

"Sticks and stones, doll," Abernathy mumbled through another enormous bite. "And just when I thought you had decided to start treatin' me nice."

"You don't deserve it. I cannot believe you would rather go hungry than risk another encounter with Miss Goldstein."

Abernathy snorted. "That's rich, comin' from you. Who's the one so desperate to please the boss that she started practicing Occlumency so she'd never reveal any secrets our sweet, little Legilimens has no business learnin'?" He lifted his eyebrows, a smug grin on his face as he ate.

"You would do well to exercise some control of your own, Joseph." Vinda took a series of steps in his direction. "If you would have kept your hands to yourself, you wouldn't have been sent to bed without supper."

Breathing heavily, Abernathy set the remains of his meal aside, his wide, grey eyes devouring her every move. His thumb explored the curve of her hip as she pressed the length of her body against him. "Did it ever occur to you that I never woulda gone for Queenie Goldstein if you hadn't turned me down?" he asked, his voice a low growl.

Chuckling, Vinda stroked his collarbone, allowed her fingertips to wander beneath his unbuttoned shirt. His pulse thundered at her touch. "I'm too good for you."

"Oh, please." Abernathy smirked. "There ain't nothin' good about you, Rosier."

In retaliation, Vinda curled her fingers into his hair and jerked his head back, bending to close the distance between them. His lips tore at her mouth, his raw desperation thrilling. Her nails dug into his scalp as she felt his forked tongue moving inside her mouth. They remained that way for an indiscernible length of time, all heat, breath, and lust. Finally, Vinda drew back.

"I already told you," she purred against his jaw. "I'm too good for you." Her tongue dipped into his ear. "And so is Miss Goldstein."

She opened her palm, and Abernathy stumbled back. Without another word, she turned on her heel, leaving him panting, his mouth stained scarlet with her lipstick. " _Sadistic_ _bitch_ ," she heard him hiss as she crossed the threshold. " _Damn you_ , Rosier!"

Smiling to herself, she willed the door closed, once again putting Gellert Grindelwald's precious first-in-command at arm's length, where he rightfully belonged.


	3. Chapter 3

There was a familial magnetism between Aurelius and Queenie. In age, only a few years separated them, but Queenie had nonetheless found herself overwhelmed by an instinct to protect and nurture this frightened young man she'd found in her company.

Aurelius felt it, too. He spent more time with her than any of the other Acolytes. It began as simply sitting in the same room, observing while she went about her own business. Soon, they had started to chat, learning more of one another. Then came the endless talks, and the sleepless nights in which not a single word was spoken, with Queenie merely listening as Aurelius purged the emotion from his burdened mind.

Trust was forged, a kind of innocent love fostered between two restless souls.

All the same, accidents happened. He'd been horrified the first time he'd called her Ma, flinching out of reach, still—after so much time—fully expecting punishment. Witnessing it had broken her heart. She'd crushed him in a hug once he felt safe enough to be touched, murmuring countless apologies and encouragements into his raven hair.

It had been quite a while since that particular incident.

Queenie looked around the castle's library, a gentle smile on her lips. The fire crackled within the hearth, its light dancing along the countless rows of books, catching the foiled lettering of their spines. It was late, and Aurelius had drifted off beside her, sprawled across the length of the sofa, his head resting in her lap. It was probably best to wake him, Queenie knew, but she couldn't bear the thought of disrupting him. . . . Not when he looked so serene. Besides, she wasn't all that tired herself, and his presence was a welcomed one. She had just made the decision to Summon a book from the shelves, when the large wooden doors in the wall opposite creaked open. A stream of light from the corridor fell across the floor, and a man's silhouette made its way into the room.

Despite her best efforts to remain still, Queenie's whole body tensed as she reached for her wand. Not that it much mattered—Aurelius had spent so much of his life preparing for danger at a moment's notice, that the sound of footsteps roused him from sleep.

"Whoa, easy there, big guy." Abernathy's tone was oddly affectionate. "It's just me."

Fortunately, Aurelius was drowsy enough that the familiar voice reassured him, and he slumped back down onto Queenie's lap. She ran her fingers through his hair, fixing Abernathy with a venomous glare. He wet his lips, shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"Can I talk to you?"

Queenie cocked an eyebrow, the tip of her wand still aimed at his chest. "I got nothin' to say to you," she replied with an easy roll of her shoulder. She expected a flare of temper, but her words merely skimmed the surface of his mind.

"Fine. Then listen." He removed his hat and held it in his hands, still standing a fair distance from her. "I said it once, but I'll say it again, proper this time. I'm sorry. I was outta line, I know that. Now, you can do with that what you will. I ain't askin' you to forgive me, or even believe me. But lemme ask you this: if you and I had to go on assignment this very minute, would you be able to trust me?"

Queenie stared up at him with wide, defiant eyes.

Abernathy's smile was strained. "No, you wouldn't. I've jeopardized our professional relationship, and I can't have that. It's unacceptable, for the both of us." A note of warmth slipped into his steely tone. "What I did to you—it wasn't right. So, I'm willing to do whatever it takes to assure you that I'll never act that way towards you again."

Queenie blinked, incapable of speech. She was being buffeted with juxtaposing thought and sentiment, left and right. Joseph Abernathy was a decent fella—always had been, really. He was good with Aurelius, doing his part to fill a void in the boy's new life. On the whole, he treated his colleagues well; he had been a fair supervisor.

He had been good to Helen.

He'd also had three significant strikes against him for as long as he could remember. Simply by being born, he was destined to be hated and feared by those unlike him; he was a Metamorphmagus, a freak among his peers, who, ironically, knew the sting of persecution all too well; despite his dedication and hard work, his station was lowly, disrespected. Three times over, he was shoved to the side, pushed downward.

He'd gotten so used to being a yes-man, keeping his mouth shut and his eyes lowered. But Gellert Grindelwald had given him the confidence to assert himself, to start standing tall and taking what he wanted. It was a dizzying experience, gaining so much, growing from so little.

He'd changed, and not necessarily for the better.

Queenie's temple began to throb. Disgust rolled through her at the empathy she felt for him.

It was wrong.

He was vicious, despicable . . .

. . . And dangerous.

An idea coiled around her brain, unfurling deep within her belly, dark and delicious.

"Would you swear to that?"

To her immense satisfaction, a flicker of apprehension flashed through Abernathy's thoughts, his eyes widening almost imperceptibly. However, resolve smoothed his features, steadied his nerves. With a sharp nod, he shrugged the coat from his shoulders, tossing it, along with his hat, onto the nearest armchair. Queenie watched, baffled, as he set to work rolling up his shirt sleeves, his drawn wand clenched between his teeth for safekeeping. She cleared her throat.

"W-what are you doin'?"

He turned to her, stowing the wand within a belt loop of his trousers. "Makin' an Unbreakable Vow." His eyebrows rose. "Isn't that what you want?"

He had taken her bait with hardly any provocation. Knowing what the consequence would be if he failed to stay true to his word held so much security and comfort, that she'd allowed herself to entertain the possibility. She'd never imagined he would be willing to make such a promise, but the amount of determination emanating from him left her breathless.

"So you'll do it?"

Abernathy's expression hardened. "If that's what it's gonna take." _Get it through your head, doll—the boss comes first. Before you, before me, before any of us._ He knew she would hear him—he was communicating directly via thought.

Queenie grinned. _Another strike against you, Mr. Abernathy._

Unawares, he approached and knelt before her. "Is this even gonna work without a witness?"

His words sent shards of ice through Queenie's veins. For a moment, she considered waking Aurelius, but even now, she lacked the heart to do so. There was no sense in drawing him into the well of bad blood between her and Abernathy when he clearly idolized them both, and his power wasn't honed enough for him to serve as their Bonder. There really was no point . . .

Queenie shrugged, her eyes fixed on the rug beneath her feet. "I don't see why we can't do it ourselves. We'll try tonight, and if it doesn't work, we'll ask someone else to step in. What's the worst that could happen?"

Abernathy raised an eyebrow. "We could both lose a limb," he grumbled.

"Nothin' you can't handle," Queenie huffed. "You got that tongue to prove it."

A corner of his mouth drew upward. "Was that a wisecrack on your part, Miss Goldstein?"

"Save your breath." She beckoned with a bob of her chin. "Gimme your hand."

Abernathy studied her, stalling for as much time as he could gather, before presenting his left arm as naturally as she would have extended her right. Queenie grasped it and immediately pressed the tip of her wand to their joined hands. Under no circumstances would she allow _him_ to Bind them, and his own wand arm had given her the advantage to ensure just that. Abernathy's palm was coated in a fine layer of sweat, but Queenie nonetheless tightened her grip.

"Joseph Abernathy." Her voice was firm, confident. "Do you swear to never engage in _any—_ " Her eyes locked with his. "—unsolicited interaction with me, Queenie Goldstein?"

Abernathy swallowed, his pulse thrumming against her skin. "I do."

A vibrant, silver glow bloomed from Queenie's wand. Her lips parted, relief twining around her heart like the ribbon of fire snaking around their wrists. Abernathy's eyes were wide with amazement, his features awash in the spell's brilliant light. Queenie exhaled. Her wand was warm, all the way to the nautilus hilt, and she could feel its subtle quiver against her palm. She had to hurry.

"And do you also swear to extend that promise to Vinda Rosier, Emmeline Carrow, and all other women who join the ranks of Gellert Grindelwald's Acolytes?"

She had frightened him. The hesitation was written so clearly upon his face that a mad sort of giggle nearly escaped her throat. Did he have _that_ little faith in himself? Was this _really_ so hard?

The moment was fleeting. Abernathy composed himself and nodded. "I do."

Queenie lowered her eyes to the tip of her wand. The pearly threads of flame had tightened around their clasped hands, searing into their skin, before guttering out.

For the longest time, neither of them moved, both reluctant to let go.

"Is that it?"

Queenie nodded. "That's it."

Abernathy blew out a breath, and loosened his hold, but Queenie held on for just a moment more. She glanced down at Aurelius, and an image materialized in her mind's eye—the three of them, together, just as they were now. Lonely casualties of divided love . . .

 _I just want what everyone else has, that's all._

Panicked, Queenie released his hand. She turned away, furiously tamping down whatever had possessed her as Abernathy stood, weak in the knees and trembling.

"Well." He cleared his throat. "Thank you, for . . . offering me a second chance, Miss Goldstein. The boss'll be happy to know that we've found a way to start over. Clean slate, and all that."

Queenie remained silent, amused by his struggle.

"It's like you said," he muttered, fiddling with his rolled cuff. The Vow's mark burned vividly along the back of his hand. "We gotta play nice if we're gonna be on the same team."

Queenie beamed, batting her long lashes for good measure. "I still despise you."

Abernathy smirked. "Fine by me. So long as you can stand to be in the same room as me." Reluctant to push his luck on the matter, he reached for his coat. Aurelius stirred, whimpering in his sleep, before once again falling still. Abernathy froze, observing him.

"Can you hear what he's dreamin'?" He pointed his hat toward Aurelius. "Is that somethin' you can do?"

Queenie tilted her head, surprised by the question. "Not usually. Dreams ain't as concrete as thoughts; they're faint, and they don't make a lotta sense."

"Huh." A strange emotion transformed Abernathy's face—something soft and wistful. "Prolly thinkin' about her. . . . He had a girl. Met her at that Circus Arcanus. He misses her."

Queenie stared at him, stupefied. "He told you that?"

The hint of a smile crossed Abernathy's lips. "Yeah. He's a good kid. Seems she didn't think him joinin' our boss's cause was the brightest idea. I told him I had some conflict-of-interest problems with a lady, myself. Seemed to hearten him a little."

"Did you also happen to mention that you murdered that very same woman?"

The leather of his coat creaked; a desolate smile crept across his face.

"Figured that out, did ya?"

By now, Queenie was no stranger to surrounding herself with dangerous people. Nearly every Acolyte living at Nurmengard had committed murder, many on multiple occasions. Strangely enough, though, that had never worried her—none of them were apt to betray her and snuff out her life, now, were they? What she _had_ found disconcerting was the lack of respect and decency from a man she had once trusted, a man who was now her ally and comrade-in-arms.

The fact that he had killed someone simply worsened her opinion of him . . . and—she was loath to admit—morbidly stoked her curiosity. The man was built of enigmatic contradictions. She wanted to stab him into place, splay him out, on full display.

"You think about her all the time . . . more than you realize. Do . . . you regret it?"

"I don't regret doin' it." Abernathy's eyes shimmered in the firelight. "But I _do_ regret that it was her."

Helen hadn't been his wife, nor his fiancée. The two of them had merely gone steady. . . . Queenie drew a breath. "You loved her."

Abernathy shook his head. "I think I _could_ have . . . if things woulda turned out different." His voice broke. "I wanted to prove that, if he ever asked me if there was anything I _wouldn't_ do for him, I could honestly say, 'no.'"

"Looks like you still can," Queenie mused, running her fingertips idly over the scars on her left hand. Abernathy looked down at his own.

"Seems that way, don't it?"

A log fell in the fireplace. With a sigh, Abernathy donned his hat, and turned toward the library doors.

"G'night, Miss Goldstein."

Queenie watched him leave, but didn't offer a response. After all, he hadn't expected one in the first place.

* * *

The corridor was darker than he remembered.

A hard knot formed in Abernathy's stomach. He mopped at his brow, beads of sweat gliding down the small of his back.

What the hell had he done?

Goldstein could think whatever she liked—that he was no better than an animal, incapable of controlling any carnal urges. He didn't care—not when he knew he woulduphold his end of the bargain.

No, he wasn't concerned about that.

No . . .

He swallowed.

If, for any reason, the boss commanded he break the Vow he'd just sworn, he'd be a goner. Because he would _never_ defy the man who had offered him salvation. He was in too deep . . . _way_ too deep, now.

Not that that possibility made any sense. It just wasn't practical. No matter how many times Abernathy turned the idea over in his brain, he simply couldn't come up with a plausible reason to worry. And _yet_ . . .

Doubt seeped through his mind, dampening his fealty. If there was even the _slightest_ chance . . .

There was _nothing_ he wouldn't do.

Grimacing, he imagined the smug satisfaction on Rosier's face. Oh ho, the vindictive minx, she would just _love_ that, wouldn't she? Nothing would make her day like finding him six feet under . . .

Mercy Lewis.

If she unearthed the nuances of his promise, Rosier would twist his words against him for sport. He would fall on his own knife, and she would laugh, watching him bleed. In a fit of panic, he stopped and made a desperate attempt to disguise the fresh wounds on his hand, but, like the tongue he'd been gifted, the Unbreakable Vow's trace was wrought with magic, altering his organic makeup past the point of Transfiguring. The mark would always be there, a beacon of his vulnerability. Shallow breaths seared his lungs—spots of black flashed across his vision.

Abernathy closed his eyes. He inhaled, deeply.

It didn't matter.

It did . . . _not_ . . . matter.

Gellert Grindelwald would never permit any of this to happen.

He would _never_ make such a demand.

He would be proud. Proud that the Acolyte he held in the highest esteem was still worthy of that position, that title, those responsibilities. That admiration. Abernathy had set what he'd made wrong, right.

He hadn't failed.

He _wouldn't_ fail.

And if he _did_ die trying, well . . .

Abernathy adjusted his hat, the hem of his long coat billowing about his heels.

Well . . . _that_ was a thought for another night altogether.

* * *

How was it possible to feel _so_ invigorated and utterly exhausted, all at once?

Queenie felt the air vacate her lungs in a huge, triumphant rush, and collapsed into the sofa cushions. Never, in her _life_ , had she done anything like that before! Her natural abilities lent themselves well to procuring leverage, but _this_ kind of power was something entirely new.

Setting her wand on a nearby end table, she beamed down at Aurelius—still using her as a pillow—and smoothed his hair. For the first time since she'd walked through that cerulean flame, she felt safe. Now, finally, she could embody her role, and embrace this new niche she'd found for herself.

At long last, she was where she belonged.

Aurelius stretched. Groaning, he rolled onto his back, blinking awake. At the sight of Queenie's face peering down at him, he grinned and cuddled closer. "Hi," he murmured.

Queenie giggled. "Hey, good mornin', sleepyhead!"

His smile vanished. "I've kept you here _that_ long?" Aurelius clambered onto his elbows. "I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry . . ."

"Oh, no, honey, I was just joshin' ya!" Queenie placed a hand on his shoulder, easing him back down onto her lap. "It's still the middle of the night!"

Frowning, Aurelius cast his bleary-eyed gaze about the library. ". . . It's the middle of the night?"

"Yeah." Queenie winked. "You fell asleep on me. Literally." To her relief, Aurelius chuckled.

"I'm sorry," he muttered a third time.

"You got no reason to apologize, honey. This has been one of the nicest evenings I've had in ages."

The two friends lapsed into a peaceful silence, interrupted only by the roaring fire.

Aurelius heaved a sigh. "I guess we should get up and go to bed, huh?"

"We _could_ . . ." Queenie shrugged. " _Or_ , we could head down to the kitchen, and I could conjure us a lil midnight snack. What do ya say, sugar? You hungry?"

Aurelius replied with a puzzled expression. "A midnight . . . what, now?"

"Oh, honey." Queenie shifted, coaxing Aurelius upright. "We've got some catching up to do."

* * *

"Now, this ain't a conventional approach, by any means," Queenie explained, doling out another dollop of Bavarian cream. With a flourish of her wand, she sent a sprinkling of toasted almonds soaring over her creations. " _This_ is Danish pastry _à la_ Goldstein."

She giggled. If Aurelius's expression was any indication, he couldn't have cared less which recipe she had or had not followed to the letter. He breathed in the warm, buttery air and reached a hand toward the plate of pastries.

"What do ya think?" she asked as he was transported by the first bite.

Aurelius opened his eyes. "It's so . . . _decadent_." The rest of his critique was lost in another mouthful, and then another.

"Careful," Queenie advised through a knowing grin. She licked a bit of cream from her fingertip. "Not too fast—they're awful rich."

Aurelius glanced at her and, with great effort, visibly slowed his progress. Nonetheless, the Danish vanished almost instantly. Queenie pushed the plate forward when he silently asked permission to take another. These treats were a far cry from the meager, watery meals he'd so often had growing up . . . if he was allowed to eat, at all. Sorrow squeezed her heart, and she nudged the plate a smidge closer.

"You'd think I could just wait 'til breakfast, like everyone else." She helped herself to a Danish. "But you know what? I blame my sister."

Aurelius looked up, surprised. "Your sister. . . . Her name is . . . Tina, right?"

The image of Teenie's face rose to the front of his mind, and the sight took her so severely off guard that she gripped the table for support. Her sister's eyes were wide, her disheveled bob hidden beneath her favorite cloche. Her touch had been gentle, her voice kinder than any he'd ever heard. Right before she lost her job as an Auror—that was how he remembered her.

Queenie nodded, her movements too quick. "Yeah . . ." The word clogged her throat. Clearing it, she continued. "She was always the brave one. One night, she climbed onto my bed, and told me we were going on an adventure. I idolized her, see—I wasn't about to ask questions. I just wanted to be exactly like her. When we passed our parents' bedroom, she had me listen to see if they were asleep, and they were. So, we tiptoed all through the house, and raided the pantry when we got there.

"We weren't even hungry—we were just so thrilled to get away with it! We ended up going back and doing it again, and again, until it became our little secret tradition. I don't think Ma and Pa ever _did_ find out that we were doin' it . . . or, if they did, they never thought about it. Believe me, I checked." Queenie smiled. "Long story, short—to this day, if I'm ever awake in the middle of the night, my appetite tells me it's time for another adventure. See? All Teenie's fault."

She bit into her pastry, emotions running rampant through Aurelius as he watched her.

"I love your stories," he mumbled. "They're almost like fairytales."

Queenie blinked rapidly against the sudden sting in her eyes. "Yeah . . . they kinda are, aren't they?"

Once upon a time, in the faraway, magical city of New York . . .

She glanced down at her left hand—the gold band's row of diamonds twinkled in the dim light.

Her enchantment had firmly taken hold by the time she'd waltzed him through the pawnshop's doors. She'd whittled down her preferences, choosing exclusively from the most inexpensive selection. She didn't want anything lavish—just something sweet and affordable, something precious to mark this next step in their lives together. Jacob had been in awe of each one, distracted by their sparkle and resemblance to some of the jewelry he'd last encountered on an adventure with Newt. As he regaled her—once again—with "The Great Niffler Heist of '26", he'd twirled one of the rings in his fingers. The ring she still wore, and hadn't had the will to remove.

Aurelius followed her gaze.

"What happened to your hand? . . . Did someone hurt you?"

Queenie looked up. Was he referring to Jacob? Horror burned in his eyes, his expression nothing short of murderous. She reached out to comfort him, and in doing so, realized what had upset him. While painless, the rivets cut by the Unbreakable Vow stood out, livid upon her skin. Queenie clutched her hand to her chest with an encouraging smile.

"Don't you worry, honey, it's nothin' like that. It's the opposite, actually. Nothin' you need to be concerned about, I promise."

Aurelius refused to be comforted. "Don't treat me like a child, Queenie. I deserve that much."

Queenie hesitated. He was right, of course. As much as she longed to mother him, to hide him away from the world that had already been so wretched, he was an adult. A man who was responsible and wise enough to know what he wanted, which in this case, was her honesty. No amount of late-night pastries could change that.

"Okay . . ." Pressing her lips into a tight line, Queenie began. "First off, everything really _is_ fine. I know it _looks_ bad, but I'm not hurt." She held out her hand for Aurelius to inspect. Her lack of reaction when he gingerly ran his fingers over the scars seemed to somewhat placate him. Queenie swallowed.

"Ya see . . . there's all different kinds of magic, and _this_ spell, in particular . . . it's a bond between two people that can't be broken. Not without a high, personal cost. Witches and wizards use it when they wanna make a promise to one another. Mr. Abernathy and I made one this evening. See, I used to work under him, and now that we're both workin' for Mr. Grindelwald, we wanted to make sure that no matter what happens in the coming months, or even years, we'll be able to trust each other."

Aurelius frowned. "Why couldn't you trust him before? And why only Mr. Abernathy?"

Queenie felt the pound of blood in her ears. It was getting increasingly difficult to work her way around the truth without painting Abernathy in a terrible light. Given her druthers, she wouldn't have bothered, but if she turned Aurelius against him, relations would be ruined, and they would all be no better off than when this whole debacle started. She truly wanted things to be better. Not worse.

Then again, if—by lying—she lost Aurelius's trust. . . .

Queenie's heart beat faster still. That could _not_ happen. It would destroy her. Once lost, she'd never get it back. After everything . . .

She sighed. "There's history between him and me, sugar. But by making this Vow, we've mutually agreed to put all that back in the past. We both want to move forward. And that's what we're gonna do."

His reply was scarcely audible.

"Has he ever hurt you?"

He was desperate to hear her say "no." Because if he had, Aurelius would kill him. If anyone touched her, he would destroy them, like he _should_ have done before. She wouldn't become another Modesty, Irma, Nagini . . .

" _Shh_ , _shh_ , honey, it's alright . . ." Through the churning vortex of fury, Queenie found him and placed a hand on his cheek. Self-loathing and concern for her enveloped him like a thickening fog, and Queenie pulled him into her arms. "Don't you worry," she mumbled against his hair. "He never hurt me. And he never will."

A technicality. Thank Morrigan.

Aurelius nodded. All at once, the jerky, rapid gesture dissolved into silent sobs. Queenie tightened her hold. " _Oh, honey_ . . ." She kissed his temple, her throat taut with his plethora of experience and emotion. "Nothin's your fault. _Shh_ , it's okay. It's all gonna be okay.. . ."

And it would be.

Queenie turned her wrist to see the evidence of Abernathy's promise.

It _would_ be. She had, and would continue to see to it. For Aurelius's sake, as well as her own.

* * *

"A _technicality_ ," Vinda spat. "Is _that_ why you favor him so?"

True, the very idea of setting foot in America revolted her. She'd heard, over the years, that the country was as garish as she'd always believed it to be. But oh, to have been the one present to free him from his incarceration! And clearly, that was all that was required to secure a position as his first-in-command. That, and a natural proclivity for camouflage. Vinda's lip curled.

Gellert Grindelwald's gaze was steady upon her, amusement tugging at a corner of his mouth. "Emerald," he mused, eyeing her frock. "The color suits you, my dear."

Vinda flushed. "I don't care what he's done," she hissed. "It is nothing, and he is weak."

Grindelwald rose from his plush chair, striding forward, hands delicately clasped at his back. "His actions do not meet your standards." The words hovered between question and statement of fact; Vinda longed to claw them from the air.

"Of course not. He carries out his duties, but at what cost? He cannot maintain this role forever; he does not have the stomach, and reeks of cowardice. What good is devotion to you, if it is hollow?"

Grindelwald smiled, acknowledging the challenge posed. "It is true, when we arrived in Paris, Rosier, your dedication was invaluable. But Abernathy has also served me well, and I have faith that he will continue to do so without wavering. I could not move forward as I have without your respective loyalties. However, your frustrations are not without merit." Already achingly close, her master leaned forward. "There is no need for despair." The whisper warmed her skin. "Your time will come."

Hungrily, Vinda searched his eyes.

"When?"

Another irksome grin. "You are a creature well-versed in sin. But it is time to return your gaze upward." Grindelwald's mouth twitched. "Toward virtue."

Vinda held his gaze, no longer riled by his incessant riddles. Enticed by this new beguilement, her commitment was rekindled.

She would be content.

For now.


	4. Chapter 4

German. German. French. Something that _looked_ like German . . .

Sighing, Abernathy dropped the bundles of newsprint back down onto the parlor's end table. He wasn't a difficult fella to please, but Mercy _Lewis_ , what he wouldn't do for the latest edition of _The New York Ghost_ . . . or _any_ newspaper printed in English, for that matter! That, and an afternoon cup of joe. Unlike him, no one else in this place went through a kettle per day—apparently, around these parts, coffee was reserved for early mornings and evenings. He was so sick of tea. It was like drinking watered-down perfume. Come to think of it, perfume might have tasted better. . . .

Abernathy paced the length of the room. Anymore, inactivity made him restless. He and the boys had spent most of the day sparring, and now that they had gone their separate ways, he needed a couple headlines, or a cryptic crossword to hold his interest until dinnertime. . . . Maybe he could talk to the boss about gaining access to the Brits' newspaper . . . something about a _Prophet_? Discretion was paramount, he knew, but if there was a paper here in _French_ , then there sure as hell ought be one everybody else could comprehend . . .

"Good gravy _,_ Goldstein!" Abernathy clutched his racing heart. "Don't _do_ that!"

Queenie bit down on her lower lip, clearly holding back a giggle. "I wasn't _tryin'_ to sneak up on you, Mr. Abernathy. What's got ya so distracted that all your patrolling instincts ain't doin' ya any favors?"

"Nothin' in particular." Color bloomed in his cheeks when he realized she'd elected to listen to the truth within his thoughts. She pursed her lips a second time. Boy, did she know how to make a fella feel like a schmuck. . . .

"I ain't too good with languages, either," she confessed. "I actually think Mr. Grindelwald would prefer it if I picked up one or two, so I could understand other people's thoughts, from different countries. Since we're in a bit of a standstill, I was thinkin' of givin' it a shot. Vinda's already offered to teach me some French. You could always join me, if you wanted to."

"Oh . . . golly, I . . ." Abernathy cleared his throat. "What's the catch, Goldstein?"

Queenie blinked. "What do ya mean?"

Suspicion narrowed his eyes. "What are you bein' so nice to me for?"

"I'm just bein' myself, Joseph. Can't a girl act decent without wantin' somethin' in return?"

Abernathy smirked. "Not in my experience."

Queenie's brow furrowed. She had a pretty little pout, he noticed, and then, remembering, squandered the comment the moment it entered his mind. She lifted an eyebrow, but had the grace to otherwise ignore it. "Well, that ain't usually the case with me. . . . But this time around, I _do_ got a question for ya. It's . . . really more of a favor . . . actually . . ."

"A favor?" A bark of laughter burst out of him. Abernathy held up his left hand. " _You_ got a favor to ask of _me_?"

Queenie squirmed, pressing an item she'd had in her hands to her chest. "I know. I know, I wouldn't ask if I could help it, but you're the only person who can do this for me, Joseph."

"The only person, huh?" Well, that ruled out most things. He had a talent for magic, true enough, but he wasn't the most powerful wizard in Nurmengard, by any means. He was superior in only one way. One very specific way . . .

"Okay . . ." He drew the word out. "Suppose I help ya. Who am I Metamorphin' into, and why?"

The loveliest smile spread across Queenie's face. Without wasting a moment, she scurried over and presented him with the item, which, as it turned out, was a framed photograph. Behind the glass, Queenie was beaming beside a portly gentleman with a mustache, dark hair, and jovial brown eyes. Abernathy had never seen the man before, but there was no questioning who the fella could be.

"No." He thrust the frame back into her hands. "Absolutely not."

Devastation crossed her face like a lengthening shadow. "Why not?"

"Because." He fixed her with a glare. "Contrary to what you might think, I ain't a sadist, Goldstein. I ain't doin' it."

Queenie frowned, lashing out with venom of her own. "You mean to tell me that you've never done the same thing, just so you could see her face?"

The blow knocked the air from his lungs, and the words from his lips. With immense difficulty, he quelled the denial that leapt to the tip of his tongue. He knew better than to lie to her.

"That's different," he growled.

" _How_?" Fury and grief sharpened the question, cracking her voice to splinters. "How is that _any_ different than doin' what I'm askin' for?"

"Because _I'm_ lookin' in a fuckin' mirror, Queenie!" His hostility and volume rose to match her temperament. "I'm good at what I do, but it's still an illusion."

Queenie stared at him, aghast. "Are you sayin' that I'll forget that it's you?" Her outrage escaped in a dangerous whisper. "That I'm insane enough to think you're _actually_ Jacob?"

Abernathy groaned in frustration, scrubbing the back of his head with more intensity than was required. He sighed. "Don't take it like that. I ain't sayin' you're stupid, or crazy. Gimme a little credit where it's due. . . ."

Queenie glowered at him from across the room. "What _are_ you sayin', then?"

"I'm sayin' that love makes us _all_ stupid and crazy." When Queenie remained unmoved, he clapped his hands together. "Alright, let's say I _do_ turn into your Mister. You know it's me. But all of a sudden, he's real. Someone you can touch, standin' right in front of you. . . . It's gonna fuckin' hurt, Queenie. It's gonna hurt in places ya didn't even know could feel. He'll be with you again, for a little while. But what's gonna happen when I turn back into me, huh? How do ya think you're gonna feel then?"

Queenie exhaled a breath, her eyelids fluttering closed as she made a poor attempt to compose herself. "I've already thought this through."

" _Have_ you?" Abernathy snapped, determined to break her.

Her eyes opened and locked onto his gaze. " _Yes_ ," she fired back. "Now, will you _please_ help me, Joseph?"

"Not unless you gimme a good reason why I should."

"Because it's what I want!"

"And why the hell is that? What are ya, some kinda glutton for punishment?"

She opened her mouth, searching, reaching. . . . Abernathy's patience dissolved.

" _Tell me_!" he roared.

" _Because I might never see him again_!"

The admission lingered in the air between them. Abernathy froze. Queenie stood rooted to the spot, quivering, her eyes impossibly wide.

"I been thinkin' about what you said. . . ." she whispered. "I don't know how all of this is gonna end. . . ." She drew a shallow breath. "And if I'm wrong . . ." Abernathy's heart gave a painful thump as a few tears slid down her face. "I need this. Just this once." She swallowed. " _Please_ , Joseph . . ."

Something crumbled deep inside of him.

 _Damn it all to fuckin' hell._

" _Once_." He stabbed the air for emphasis.

Her entire countenance brightened. Abernathy scowled.

"Just remember, I'm doin' this as a favor, because _you_ _asked me to_." He wrung his hands, rubbing the scars in an anxious sort of frenzy. The panic lacing his words disgusted him, but there was potential for him to drop dead on the spot because of this asinine request of hers. He could only hope his reiteration, and her nod of concession, would be enough to keep his heart beating for another day.

Abernathy exhaled loudly, and held out his hand. "Lemme see."

Queenie offered up the picture frame, her face glowing with optimism. Abernathy gave her a pointed look before lowering his gaze to her photographic counterpart, and the object of his eminent transformation.

His eyes traced over the man's features, committing the finer details to memory. Satisfied, he gave the picture back, and set to work.

All around, it would be fairly straightforward. Before loosening his belt, Abernathy unfastened the buttons of his tailored suit and waist coats—though the two of them shared a similar height, Queenie's fella had a different build. Clothing adjusted, and with the No-Maj's likeness in the foreground of his mind, Abernathy closed his eyes, shaping his body into the mold she had provided and, clearly, preferred.

* * *

Nowadays, nothing felt all that real.

Nurmengard itself was something out of a storybook. Oh, sure, it paled in comparison to Ilvermorny. Still, a fortress hidden away within a range of snow-covered mountains was not without a romance all its own. There was nothing like it in New York, that was for sure. And inside its walls, there was nothing like New York.

She found evidence of this everywhere. Any snippet of conversation in a colleague's native tongue, or a sample of Mr. Krafft's cuisine, or the castle's alpine-inspired décor, had developed, over time, into an unpleasant reminder that she was _so_ far from home.

Her daydreams were often filled with thoughts of her and Tina's cozy apartment, of her tiny, but functional and beloved kitchen space. Her tools for mending and crafting beautiful clothes, all her creams and powders, the bed sheets and quilts that put the silk and linen here to shame.

Curling up near the fireplace with Teenie, sipping cocoa and giggling over the latest gossip.

The smell of fresh stationery in the dingy, little warren known as the Wand Permit Office.

The tinkling bell above the door at Kowalski's Bakery . . .

She missed every little bit of it. With each passing day, Queenie wondered when she might see it all again.

 _If_ . . . she might see it all again . . .

For so long, the possibility had been too dark, too horrifying to entertain. Everything would work out in the end. She would serve her purpose, do her best to make a difference. And one day, when witches and wizards assumed their rightful place in the world, she'd be free to go home, to find Tina and Jacob, and live an improved version of her life.

But lately, her perfect conclusion seemed to be drifting out of reach. She'd been at Nurmengard for little over two months, and had nothing to show for it. With no plan, no progress, who could say _when_ their future would ever arrive?

The heart grew fonder with absence, she'd always heard.

Easy enough to believe when there was nothing at stake.

The part of her that dwelled outside the circle at Père Lachaise could not remain there forever, nor could it return to her here in Austria. More than anything, she longed to end its torment. To stand before Tina and ask for her forgiveness. To stare into Jacob's eyes and ask him if he loved her.

It was a vicious desire . . . haunting and desperate.

An apology directed at anyone other than her sister would have done her no good, whatsoever. But Jacob was different. Just _seeing_ him again, in person, after so many hours, and days, and weeks of missing him. . . . Ephemeral as it was, she knew that it was the only thing that could ease her suffering. And by some miracle, Abernathy had decided to oblige her.

Queenie had witnessed one of his transformations before, but it had been far less extensive. The hair atop his head shortened and curled, and a portion grew directly above a fuller pair of lips. His stomach softened, like the severe angles of his face. Every feature shifted, reconfigured. . . . When he finally opened his eyes, the familiar color of tempered chocolate swallowed the remaining silver.

Queenie stopped breathing.

The illusion was so thorough, so convincing, that anyone not privy to their agreement would never have realized that it was Abernathy standing there, in place of her fiancé.

A corner of his mouth quirked up into the nervous semblance of a grin, his discomfort palpable. Shrugging, Abernathy overturned his wrists, presenting himself. _Ta da_.

Queenie's hand strayed to her mouth. Pinpricks of joy spilled from her eyes as they roamed over him, head to toe. He was truly brilliant with his ability—if only he never had to change back. . . .

A million things that she'd been waiting to say bubbled up inside of her, but she shoved them all back down. They were for Jacob, and no one else. Even so . . . looking into his adorable, handsome face, watching him stand, and blink, and breathe . . .

She stepped forward, until she felt the warm press of his belly against her torso, and reached up to cradle his cheek.

Her darling baker. Her No-Maj.

Her Jacob . . .

" _Don't_."

Abernathy's voice startled her. She opened her eyes to discover that she had leaned in, perilously close, her lips nearly upon his mouth.

 _You're crazy. . . ._

Queenie shivered. The frame slipped from her grasp, littering the floor with glass as it shattered.

He'd been right . . .

A sob escaped her throat. Abernathy gasped as she collapsed against him, burying her tearstained face into his chest. She felt his arms wrap cautiously around her, and when no harm befell him, his fingers splayed across her back.

"I know, doll," he mumbled over her harsh, staccato breaths.

While he held her, Queenie felt his body morph back to its original state. The unnerving sensation of transfiguring flesh helped ground her in the reality she would soon have to face. She welcomed it, clutching Abernathy's lapel as his heart-wrenching illusion, and her former life, permanently melted away.

"I love you," she murmured, so softly that her own ears barely registered the words. "Goodbye, Jacob."

* * *

Queenie was crying.

Aurelius's blood ran cold at the sight of her in Mr. Abernathy's arms, sobbing as if her heart had broken. His oldest companion—fear—rose within him, stirring his limbs.

"Queenie?"

Aurelius dashed over the threshold.

Abernathy spied him through her curls, and immediately placed a finger over his lips. Aurelius hesitated, watching his friend proceed with a nod of his head, and a reassuring wink. Still, Aurelius ached simply knowing she was distressed. He told himself that Mr. Abernathy would handle it, but his instincts urged him to go to her, to do whatever he could to fix the problem . . . to bring her smile back . . .

Aurelius jumped when a hand came to rest on his shoulder. He turned to find Mr. Grindelwald's mismatched eyes level with his own, full of tenderness. He smiled at his protégé.

"Come, Aurelius."

The whisper slithered in and around his skull, compelling him back toward the corridor.

"What happened?" he muttered, with one final glance at the room they'd vacated.

"It is my understanding that Miss Goldstein is experiencing a dose of homesickness. Are you familiar with the term?"

Aurelius nodded. "With the _term_ , yes."

It baffled him that there were people in the world capable of growing so attached to a place that it was painful for them to leave it behind. For his own part, he never wanted to set foot in his so-called "home" again.

The city of New York held no sway over him. Its streets conjured up memories of frozen fingers and aching feet, planted on bustling corners. Discarded pamphlets, trampled and skittering in the wind. Countless eyes that fancied him invisible. Unbearable drafts, vermin flapping in the rafters and scuttling across the floor. Hungry, sleepless nights. . . . The telltale crack of leather . . .

Aurelius forced himself back through time, guided by the sound of Grindelwald's even footsteps as they strolled down the hallway, side by side. His mentor glanced at him, but Aurelius refused to meet his gaze.

"There are some who would suggest that one's home is not defined by a location, but dwells wherever acceptance and love are present. Among trusted friends, family . . ."

Aurelius snorted. "What would I know of family?" The question was bitter—more so than he had intended—yet he found a wicked gratification in his disregard for it. A mother who had abandoned him, a guardian who loathed him . . . and now, a brother who, supposedly, sought to destroy him. Beyond this, he knew nothing of his past—so much of Grindelwald's time had been devoted to Aurelius's overall wellbeing, that there had been little left for storytelling.

His head still reeled whenever he counted the consecutive days in which he'd slept in a soft, warm bed, eating three filling meals a day in the company of people who never laid a hand on him, save in kindness. Surrounded by such comfort, his every need sated, Aurelius had found himself craving things that he'd long ago thought had been lost to him—books, knowledge, an education in magic. For a man his age, he was sorely behind in his studies, but Grindelwald had been patient with him, tutoring him at length, molding him into the wizard he was destined to become.

Aurelius blinked.

What had gotten _into_ him?

"I-I didn't mean . . ." Shame burned his face and neck. "I'm very grateful, Mr. Grindelwald." Aurelius cast his mentor a fleeting glance, and found his gentle smile still in place. "You all have given me everything I've ever wanted."

A hand came around to rest on his shoulder. "And yet?"

Aurelius swallowed, his heart pounding. "When were you going to tell me who I am?" His feet slowed to a stop, and he turned to look Grindelwald squarely in the eye. "Where I come from? My whole history?"

Silence swelled between them, and it took every ounce of bravery Aurelius possessed to remain steadfast and calm. He would not grovel. He would not apologize. An emotion still quite foreign to him brightened his mentor's expression. A grin lifted his pale mustache.

"The moment you asked," Grindelwald replied.

* * *

The window had been repaired, he noticed. Otherwise, the room was unchanged.

Aurelius reached into his suit coat and withdrew his wand, fingers cradling the polished wood. It was here, in this very spot, where the two had been united. Here, where he had heard the first truth of his life.

His identity. His purpose.

The tinkling clatter of porcelain caught and held his attention. A tea service had appeared on a nearby table, and the pot was pouring two servings of steaming liquid. With a bow of his head, Grindelwald insisted Aurelius settle in and help himself, as the tale before them would likely take time to unfold. Wedged within the corner of a damask chaise, Aurelius pocketed his wand and took a sip of the sweet, aromatic tea. The accompanying jam-filled biscuits were equally enjoyable, but Queenie had spoiled him with her baking—the entire tray could never compare with a single bite of one of her pastries.

His thoughts strayed to her as he watched Grindelwald cross the room, down to the lower landing, his reflection ghostly on the wall of paned glass. Was she still upset? Had Mr. Abernathy found a way to comfort her?

Chewing quietly, Aurelius receded into himself, waiting.

"You should know, my boy, that you are not the first to be dealt a heinous betrayal at the hands of Albus Dumbledore."

The sorrowful words woke Aurelius from his reverie. "Albus Dumbledore," he whispered. "My brother."

With a forlorn smile, Grindelwald turned from the window. "Your brother," he confirmed. "And the man who once shared my very soul."

Aurelius flushed. The cup and saucer rattled in his hand as he again felt the caress of Mr. Graves' cool skin; the heat of his breath; the strength of his embrace. Sins of the flesh. The path to damnation. With each encounter, Aurelius had willingly solidified his fate. . . . But now, hearing Grindelwald say such a thing . . . had he been wrong in this, just as he had been mistaken before?

"I had known love previously, of course." Grindelwald smirked. "But _that_ man, with his brilliant mind and unparalleled greatness. . . . He continued to teach me when I thought I knew all that could possibly be learned. He was . . . extraordinary."

His gaze returned to the mountainous landscape. "I hope you will not think less of me once you hear the truth in its entirety, Aurelius. I assure you, the shame I now carry is unfathomable. But when one is fortunate enough to stumble upon an intellectual twin, it is so simple to ignore the shadows. I drank in Albus's light, never caring if I was blinded or burned. He embodied my ideologies, my most secret desires. It was inevitable that I adored him. And to think—we should never have met.

"After leaving Durmstrang Institute, I was invited by my great-aunt to spend some time at her home, and, having no sense of direction or purpose, I accepted. It was a peaceful place, a community comprised entirely of witches and wizards. Quiet. Safe. Unexceptional. I came downstairs one afternoon to find Great-aunt Bathilda in a most excitable state. 'Tuck your shirt in, Gellert, and be sure to look smart!'"

Grindelwald chuckled, lost in the remembrance. Aurelius swallowed a large gulp of tea and shifted to the edge of the sofa.

"We were going to a dinner party, she said, a going-away celebration. The Dumbledores' eldest son, a recent graduate of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, had just returned to bid his family farewell before setting off on a grand tour with a fellow classmate. The name was vaguely familiar—I'd heard rumors of a renowned student at Hogwarts, known for his collection of prestigious awards and numerous academic achievements. Nothing, however, prepared me for the reality of him.

"It was rude, perhaps, but that night, we hardly acknowledged anyone else. Neither one of us had ever met another person with ideas as radical as our own. We were impassioned and precocious, as desperate for each other's breadth of insight as we were to make a difference in our world. Oh, yes . . . at one time, we were united. We believed in the same cause, so much so that after a number of days, and much to everyone's surprise, Albus decided to postpone his trip abroad.

"The two of us were inseparable. We talked for hours on end, theorizing, scheming. In the slivers of time in between, I became better acquainted with his family. His parents, Percival and Kendra, were a most gallant couple; his younger brother, Aberforth, charming—in his gruff, unpolished way. And then there was the third child, Ariana."

A tangible silence followed, quickening Aurelius's pulse. Grindelwald sighed.

"Such a sweet girl, really. I can't help but think that _you_ . . ."

Aurelius leaned forward. "Yes, Mr. Grindelwald?"

"Forgive me, my boy." His reflection closed its eyes, head bowed in defeat. "I would spare you this part of the story . . ."

"No." Aurelius's voice rang out. "Please. I want to know everything that happened."

A reluctant nod; a drawn breath.

"When she was a child, no older than six, Ariana was harassed by a trio of Muggle boys after they'd glimpsed a bout of her underaged magic. The experience terrified her so severely that she suppressed her natural abilities, living in constant fear that she would be punished. Percival was furious, and vowed to avenge his daughter, but Kendra warned her husband of the ramifications. They soon concluded that the safest course of action was to move to a more nurturing environment, far from the prying eyes of Muggles. Even so, Ariana refused to unleash her magic. It began to fester inside her, all the while developing into what is now identified as . . ."

"An Obscurus."

Each of Aurelius's internal organs turned to stone.

An older sister . . . kind and fair . . . consumed by fear . . .

He knew her with every fiber of his being.

With unnecessary force, he returned his cup to the tray, the taste of tea now bitter in his mouth.

"It was devastating to witness. One moment, she would be carefree and laughing—the next, a casualty of the war raging within her own body. Albus and I often discussed her plight. It was one of the many bases for our progressing philosophy. If only witches and wizards were free to be themselves, as firm and benevolent leaders of society! With no International Statute of Secrecy, Ariana would never again have to hide herself away—nor would any of our magical brethren. Muggles are so easily misguided, we agreed—rarely do they ever behave in their best interests. Certainly _never_ in ours. If only Albus and I could persuade our brothers and sisters to unite and arise for the Greater Good of all. . . .

"And why couldn't we? Surely, it was our responsibility! Even at seventeen, Albus's influence stretched across continents—while away at school, he had been in regular correspondence with the most notable magical names of the day. With the talents between us, we could do it, I insisted. We could go off on our own, educating and rallying others to join us. Together, we could undo centuries of damage, and create a better world for wizard-kind and non-magical communities, alike.

"And we would, Albus assured, stroking the flesh of my inner wrist, a twinkle in his eye. We would. And soon. We swore to it. . . . Do you know what a Blood Pact is, Aurelius?"

With a start, Aurelius tore himself from the narrative.

 _Witches and wizards use it when they wanna make a promise to one another._

"I . . . I think I know of something comparable?"

The response sufficed. Grindelwald nodded.

"Albus and I vowed to remain as one in all things, never to abandon one another. Our conversations escalated from fancies and hypotheticals, into logistics and plans. I can say, without exaggeration, that those mild summer months were the happiest of my young life. Wherever I ate, slept, or breathed, Albus was there, supporting me, and I, him. And then, one day, everything went dreadfully wrong."

There was a crash as Aurelius involuntarily kicked the tea service table, startled by a knock at the door.

"I beg your pardon, _messieurs_ , but Alexander wishes to know if he should set a place for you both this evening?"

Abashed, Grindelwald glanced over his shoulder. "So callous of me. Are you hungry?" he asked.

Aurelius shook his head.

"Thank you, Rosier. Please enjoy your repast in our absence."

Vinda stooped into a modified curtsy, closing the door on her way out.

"My apologies, Aurelius. If you change your mind, Mr. Krafft will provide you with something to eat whenever you desire."

"Oh, no . . . thank you, but . . . I'm fine." His appetite was of a different variety—he lifted his eyebrows, prompting his mentor to continue. Grindelwald's smile broadened.

"The change was gradual, now that I think it over. But at the time, it came about quite suddenly. Albus had taken a keen interest in Ariana, and the nature of her 'rages.' He'd noticed that they were not necessarily as erratic as they were thought to be, and opened his mind to a darker series of possibilities. What if that power could be harnessed, and used in our favor? What if _she_ was the key to our success, a weapon that could secure our victory? Imagine, if he were to stay and more closely study the nature of his sister's mysterious condition. . . .

"One obsession had bled into another, and it troubled me. It seemed morally unsound to treat Ariana as anything less than human. The only part she played in our original plan was to lead a blissful life, free of persecution and suffering, after Albus and I had returned. That was our mission— _that_ was our future, or had he forgotten?

"We were both wounded. We'd promised to support one another in our every endeavor. Neither of us was to turn our back on the other. Nothing was supposed to change. Tempers flared. We argued, fueled by our emotions. His siblings eventually heard us, and came to investigate. Aberforth stepped in, tried to wrench the two of us apart. Through the snippets of our screams, he gathered a rough idea as to what had begun this feud of ours. What he heard horrified him. Furious, he fought alongside me, until the three of us could contain ourselves no longer.

"A duel commenced. In that moment, the bond forged between myself and Albus was compromised. We paid no heed. Distressed by the conflict between her two brothers, Ariana ran forward, intending to stop them. We did not notice.

"Our series of offense spells rebounded, and Ariana was killed in the crossfire."

. . . No.

 _No_.

Aurelius leapt to his feet.

" _I_ came back!" he blurted. "When all those wizards attacked me, enough of my essence survived to manifest back into myself." On impulse, he reached for his wand, clutching the hilt to keep himself grounded. "What if she did the same thing? Maybe Ariana is still alive!"

Something akin to pity contorted Grindelwald's expression. It was kinder, perhaps, but nonetheless told Aurelius his theory was incorrect.

"Life was the price of our violated contract, and—out of love—Ariana intervened. There is permanence in both forms of magic."

"Oh . . ." Aurelius slumped, defeat weighing heavily in his stomach. Mentally, he retraced the angry scars lacing the back of Queenie's hand.

 _It's a bond between two people that can't be broken. Not without a high, personal cost._

What _exactly_ had she and Mr. Abernathy sworn? All these magical vows sounded dangerously similar. If Gellert Grindelwald and Albus Dumbledore—the two most powerful wizards of the century—could not maintain a blood oath without disastrous repercussions, what did that mean for his friends? He grimaced, suddenly ill.

Grindelwald, too, had paled considerably, as though his blood and the story he told were one in the same, draining slowly from his veins.

"Albus fled. He took nary a glance at her before Disapparating. I'm loathe to say that I also took my leave, shortly after I'd helped Aberforth carry her back to their family. I explained as best I could, that it had been an accident. Why we had fought. That Albus was gone."

His voice did not waver, nor was a single tear shed, yet Aurelius found himself watching and listening as Gellert Grindelwald wept.

Dusk had darkened the windows to the color of ink by the time both men felt ready to resume.

"Five years after the abandonment of their eldest son, and the loss of their only daughter, Percival and Kendra were blessed with a golden ray of happiness. Their third son, Aurelius." Grindelwald smiled. "You."

Aurelius remained silent, swiping a hand over his damp face.

"The absence of her children had left your mother poorly and bereft," his mentor continued. "That you had been conceived, and that she had carried you, was nothing short of miraculous. You were her light in the darkness. However, a few months after your birth, her health gravely declined. Healers were called for, but none could offer a solution. Tragically, nothing—not even her love for you—was enough to keep death at bay."

Grindelwald swallowed, eyes lowered.

"It was a loss too many for your father. In a drunken rage, he attacked a number of innocent bystanders, wizard and Muggle, alike. Driven mad by heartbreak, he refused to cooperate, and was sentenced to the wizarding prison of Azkaban. Fearful of what Albus might do once he discovered the addition to the Dumbledore linage, Aberforth entrusted you to your maiden aunt, Honoria, to foster you in America. But, as you know, your life with her was disrupted when, aboard the ship, a young Leta Lestrange switched you with her brother. As was the plan for Corvus Lestrange all along, to escape the wrath of Yusuf Kama, Irma Dugard continued with you in tow to New York City, where you were adopted by Mary Lou Barebone in his stead."

Nodding, Aurelius stared into the empty air before him. This part of the story, he knew.

 _I am not your Ma. Your mother was a wicked, unnatural woman_!

But how could she have known? Mrs. Barebone knew nothing of Kendra Dumbledore, and perhaps little more of the woman who had given birth to Corvus. In either case, however, the baby she had adopted belonged to a set of magical parents. That alone, in the eyes of the New Salem Philanthropic Society, was a vile, unforgivable crime. Aurelius blinked. Credence Barebone, he realized, had been condemned from the very beginning.

"You see," Grindelwald added. "Albus foresaw your potential. He knew, under the proper tutelage, your power would grow to rival his own. Unable to shape you into an ally, he—understandably—did not want you falling into rival hands. But when the news of the ship's sinking returned to Europe, his fears were assuaged. Aberforth posed no threat—his abilities were laughable compared to those of his older brother. No longer faced with any form of opposition, Albus returned to his work.

"Over time, he began building a network of international contacts—having lost Ariana, he tasked these followers to locate another Obscurial for potential use." Grindelwald turned from the window, to face Aurelius. "My boy, it was no coincidence that you were pursued by the man known as Percival Graves."

Aurelius inhaled, gutted by the name that had nearly destroyed him, yet still, occasionally, formed on his lips in the depths of sleep. . . .

 _I want you to have this, Credence. I would trust very few with it—very few . . ._

A flash of silver. Large, warm hands cradling his neck.

 _But you—you're different._

Aurelius flinched, shutting his eyes against the unbidden memories. Grindelwald mounted the small set of stairs leading to the ground floor, his hand lagging behind, elegantly draped atop the iron banister.

"Stationed in America, and taking note of all the damage and strange disturbances caused by what was undoubtedly one such entity, Graves set out to find the Obscurial. He assumed he was looking for a child—and with good reason. You see, for centuries, there was no documentation of an Obscurial surviving more than ten years. Your sister was the exception, of course. Had events not gone awry, there's no telling how many years she might have lived past the age of fourteen. . . ."

He paused, assessing Aurelius's reaction.

"Graves had no idea that the person he sought was none other than his employer's own brother—alive—tucked away in the back alleys of New York. Aurelius Dumbledore, returned from the dead. As you might imagine, this news did not sit well with Albus. Not well, at all."

Sparks exploded from Aurelius's wand, singeing the decorative carpet.

"They were working together. . . ."

He could not distinguish magic from rage as his blood came to a boil. His Dark Friend prowled beneath his skin, prodding the surface, seeking release.

"Concentrate . . ."

A shimmering wall rose to greet him. Aurelius roared, thrusting the hatred forward, through the core of his wand. With a blinding flash, each burst of magic was absorbed by Grindelwald's Protection spell. Aurelius slashed at the air until the Obscurus calmed and curled, exhausted, back into submission, deep within him. It would disappear fully, in time, his mentor had said—when he had trained enough to master his magic. He stood in the middle of the room, gasping for breath, as Grindelwald's shield began to crackle and fade. Aurelius filled his lungs.

"He said he'd had a vision—that the Obscurial was in close proximity to my . . ." He swallowed. " _Mother_. That I was the one who would gain the child's trust . . ."

"An elaborate ruse." Grindelwald sighed, his features suddenly weary. "Magic leaves traces, and Graves, no doubt, sensed residual power lingering outside your adoptive mother's church. He correctly assumed that the Obscurial was not far, and knew that you made habitual contact with all who entered there. He fabricated stories to beguile you, to endear himself to you. Nothing more, or less."

 _Come with me—think of what we could achieve together._

Aurelius trembled.

 _. . . what we could achieve together . . ._

Albus.

Graves.

Albus.

"I'm such a fool."

" _No_." The earnest reply rent his soul. Grindelwald appeared before him, and enfolded Aurelius in his arms. "No. You were _fooled_. As was I. That is his very nature, Aurelius—to entice with glittering falsehoods." Aurelius sniffed, wanting so badly to melt into his mentor's embrace, to be soothed with a few comforting words. But that was a boy's solution. Nothing could efface the damage from his past, scour the truth of why and what he had come to be. His body ached with the strain of holding himself upright.

"Everything that's happened in my life," he croaked, savoring the caress of Grindelwald's woolen coat against his nose, his chin. "It's all because of Albus."

Death. Pain.

Insufferable loss . . .

Grindelwald stepped back, his noble face lined with sorrow. The tale's conclusion had aged and hollowed his formidable mentor into a physical echo of Aurelius's own heart and mind—a sight both disconcerting and beautiful to behold.

"I'm so sorry, my boy," he whispered, reaching up to stroke Aurelius's cheek. "That is my greatest regret. I could have ended your torment before it was begun—but I was too young, too cowardly . . . too very much in love to do what had to be done." He grasped Aurelius's shoulders, affectionate and firm. "Nor was I strong enough, in mind, in magic. Time has remedied that. And I have found you. I've _found_ you, my darling boy."

Tightening his grip, Grindelwald pressed a prolonged kiss upon Aurelius's forehead.

"That which haunts him is now realized. You and I can move against him. Together, we can end his cruelty."

 _Your brother seeks to destroy you._

Those had been Grindelwald's words. And he would never lie.

Queenie had assured him of that.

Credence Barebone had been obliterated in New York; Corvus Lestrange, lost at sea.

Aurelius Dumbledore was no longer a victim. Not to circumstances or fate. Not to anyone.

His eyes bore into those of his mentor. "Tell me what to do."

Grindelwald smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

She was hollow, she realized. Numb.

Queenie couldn't quite fathom how that could be.

Even if she, herself, had no more to give, someone else's emotion plucked the strings of her heart. She felt everything, always. But Jacob's reoccurring absence, it seemed, had torn her very soul, allowing other pieces of her to slip away, and disappear. . . .

Her dress—modest and dark—rustled with each stride down the hall. Pastels and shades of pink lined the bottom of her suitcase, procured by Vinda after she'd carelessly abandoned her belongings back in Grindelwald's Parisian apartment. Not so long ago, she'd firmly believed that it was impossible to feel unhappy wearing such a rosy color. As she'd stood before the full length mirror earlier that morning, however, the fabric she'd selected mocked her, clothing her in a wealth of unbearable memories.

Just as well, really. Cerise and salmon weren't exactly complimentary to her colleagues' understated, verdant hues, and she had no desire, during their assemblage, to place herself on display. Yet another deviation from the Queenie she remembered . . .

The thought sat heavily in her belly, drawing everything—eyes, shoulders, heart—downward. She coaxed the corners of her mouth into a smile, defying it. This was good news! Grindelwald had not called his Acolytes together since their rendezvous at Nurmengard, proceeding the rally. Surely that meant that a course of action was ready to be implemented. She'd been waiting for this, was ready for it. . . .

Her skin prickled. Queenie glanced up to find Abernathy standing outside the designated room, a jittery excitement emanating from every pore. Shivering, Queenie folded her arms and stood at his side.

"Hi," she whispered.

"Hey." Abernathy's eyes flicked to her as he rocked on the balls of his feet. "You okay?" Queenie met his gaze. Her expression, it seemed, had warranted a second, more poignant look.

"Sure . . ." She forced a smile. Abernathy smirked.

"Don't need your mind games to know _that_ ain't true. C'mon. Try me."

Joseph Abernathy: friend and confidant. Queenie nearly laughed.

"How do you live with yourself, Joseph?"

Stunned, Abernathy opened his mouth, but Queenie barreled on. "How do you do it, with all those voices tellin' you that you're everything he said you were?"

 _What is wrong with you, Queenie?_

 _You're acting like a child_.

 _She's lost her mind. I've lost her . . ._

 _You seemed like the safest person in the room until I realized what you could do . . ._

 _You're crazy . . ._

The tips of her nails raked through her curls. "He didn't even know we were engaged! I told him, but it never sank in. I mean, sure, we _talked_ about it, but he didn't wanna go through with it—it was too dangerous, he said. But I didn't care. . . . Why did I do that, Joseph?"

She turned back to him with wide, glistening eyes. "I'm a monster."

"And you think that makes you special?"

Queenie stared. She hadn't expected words of comfort, but such a frank affirmation was severe, even by Abernathy's standards. He cocked an eyebrow.

"Look around ya, doll. That's what we are. All of us. Ya can't change the nature of things, and more often than not, the truth is ugly as sin. Embrace it."

Abernathy reached for her hand—as he held it, her eyes followed the Unbreakable Vow's winding path, flowing seamlessly across their skin.

"Look, the way I see it, you did some things you regret. But it's over. Kaput. You did some more things, made _more_ choices. And it's high time ya own up to 'em— _all_ of 'em. All this back and forth, it's gonna drive ya insane. For real."

Queenie tilted her head. He thought she was in her right mind—her heart swelled at the sentiment.

Abernathy sighed. "I spent the time changin' into that No-Maj of yours 'cause I thought it might bring ya some closure." His grip tightened. "Ain't you tired of holdin' on, Queenie?"

Exhausted was more like it—fingertips aching as she was buffeted in the opposing direction, clinging to what she no longer deserved.

"I ain't gonna lie—the guilt never goes away. But look what strides you've already taken to make amends, huh? You got a lot of important work ahead of ya. The boss has plans for you, I _know_ he does." Abernathy nodded toward the door. "What's more noble than that? And the kid! Have ya seen the way he looks at you? He adores you, Queenie. Honestly, I ain't too sure what he'd do without you at this point."

Queenie rolled her eyes, a tearful laugh breaking free of her throat. Abernathy gave her hand a gentle squeeze, shuffling closer. His face was very near her own when he next spoke.

"I feel I should tell ya, if you're really that worried, I'd think twice about walkin' through that door. There's no room for second guessing in there, I guarantee. Either you make peace with what you are, right now, or . . ."

Queenie interrupted, pleading he understand. "It ain't that simple, Joseph . . ."

His hands were so warm. Queenie recalled the sturdiness of his body, the subtle strength of his arms. What would it be like to go there again?

Abernathy frowned. "Like hell, it ain't. It's just one more choice, Queenie. That's all it is!" His chin fell forward. "Forcin' people into things—you and I know better, and we both blew it. Hell, I still ain't too good at it." His gaze dropped to their clasped hands, a wry grin stretching across his face. "It's what I did to Helen. And I had to let her go. Now it's your turn, Queenie—ya gotta kill Jacob."

Her panic fueled his own anxieties. "Metaphorically," he clarified. "Once you do that, you can mourn properly. And then, you can move on, and do what you gotta do. For the Greater Good."

Queenie trembled. It was a process she had already begun. But he was right, she realized. This was the final goodbye.

The world was silent.

Queenie drew a deep breath.

Redemption. Freedom. Remorse.

"For the Greater Good."

Chasms opened within her. Airy, light . . .

Abernathy smiled, loosening his grip as she extracted her hand. Instead, it snaked down the length of his right arm until their fingers entwined. He mirrored her, turning to the side—hands held between them—facing their future.

"You ready?"

The pound of her pulse frightened her. Queenie opened her mouth, but was spared by the clack of approaching footsteps. Smiling, Vinda sidled up to her.

" _Ça va, chèrie_?"

Between gulps of air, Queenie gratefully sank into Vinda's Occlumency. Her mind quieted, cleansed by the cold rain. . . . Beyond the stillness, disdain dripped from Abernathy's thoughts, replaced by a smarmy satisfaction when Vinda's eyes fell upon their joined hands. Queenie shook her head. The dynamic between the two was convoluted, at best, and one day, she would attempt to wade and sort through it.

This was not the time.

Vinda and Abernathy also sensed this, and turned their attention to the matter at hand.

"We should go in," Vinda encouraged, offering Queenie another smile. "There's no sense in remaining out here . . ."

"Oh, _please_ , by all means, doll—after you," Abernathy simpered, holding tight to Queenie's hand as Vinda made an amicable reach for her arm. His available hand swept toward the door, and Vinda's eyes rolled in a similar arc. Slightly mesmerized by her stride, Queenie watched her saunter into the spacious sitting room.

In a soft voice, Abernathy repeated his question.

"You ready?"

Queenie met his gaze and replied with a slow, steady nod. She would be. Grin taut, Abernathy jostled her hand in a reassuring fashion, and together, they crossed the threshold.

The few already assembled took no notice of their entrance, nor—thankfully—her proximity to Abernathy. The atmosphere was charged with a cloying sobriety that seemed, primarily, to stem from the figure leaning against the mantle. Aurelius refused to acknowledge anyone, the wand in his kneading fingers the only barrier containing his tumultuous wrath. Harrowed, Queenie moved toward him, but Abernathy held her back, shaking his head in warning. Even without Legilimency, the promise of danger was palpable.

Perched on a nearby settee, Nagel quivered, fingers drumming atop his bouncing leg. Vinda lounged beside him, anticipation masked by a sensual nonchalance. Slumped in an armchair with a cap pulled over his eyes, MacDuff wove in and out of consciousness, unperturbed. Queenie envied him. She chanced a glimpse at Abernathy, and he raised his eyebrows in agreement. After what felt like a decade of waiting, Krafft ambled through the door, and shortly after, Emmeline closed it behind her.

An additional ten years passed. . . .

"Thank you for coming, my friends."

In an instant, Gellert Grindelwald commandeered their full attention. He stood among them, composed of straight lines and hard angles. Night had been woven into his clothing, the moon's pallor reflected in his hair and skin. Velvet poured from this lips.

"I know that in recent weeks, a form of malcontent has arisen in our midst—rumblings of impatience, and uncertainty. Do I begrudge you this behavior?" Grindelwald paused, a glint in his singular, pearl eye.

Queenie heard Abernathy swallow. Her stomach clenched, much as it used to when her professors scanned the classroom for an unwilling participant. To the Acolytes' collective relief, their leader broke into a benevolent smile.

"No," he soothed. "No, of course I do not. Your restlessness, your . . . desire to compel our cowering world out of the shadows is both touching and commendable. It is I who have failed you. I have kept you waiting. But the moment has arrived, my brothers and sisters. _Your_ moment, my Acolytes . . . has come."

Some straightened, others leaned in or bolted upright.

 _Their_ moment. They, who lived for higher things . . .

Queenie's eyes darted to Vinda, poised to strike at a moment's notice.

For truth.

Aurelius came forward to stand at his mentor's right hand.

For freedom.

The question ran through Abernathy's mind one last time: _You ready?_

She drank him in . . .

And, for love.

Discreetly, Queenie Goldstein nodded.

At long last, it was time to come home.


End file.
